Some act of br Love's br bound to reherse, br I thought to bind him, in my verse: br Which when he felt, Away (quoth he) br Can Poets hope to fetter me? br It is enough, they once did get br Mars, and my br Mother br , in their net: br I weare not these my wings in vaine. br With which he fled me: and againe, br Into my rimes could ne're be got br By any art. Then wonder not, br That since, my numbers are so cold, br When br Love br is fled, and I grow old.